Chapter 3: Reaping the Harvest

Rhychard splashed cold water over his whisker-stubbled face, the chill shocking some life back into his mind. His arm and chest throbbed with pain even though Kree had successfully healed the gouges Vargas left. The skin was still pink, and even the elven hound couldn't take away the scars left behind.

Rhychard glanced up into the bathroom mirror, water dripping from his face into the dirty sink below. A hollowness seemed to surround his pine bark-colored eyes, giving him a ghostly appearance. His high cheeks had a thinness to them he hadn't noticed before. He knew he hadn't been eating properly but didn't realize his lack of appetite had taken such a toll on him in so short an amount of time. He reached around and pulled his long, dark hair into a ponytail, tying it with a leather thong. He noticed how his biceps bulged and his chest rippled as he did, more than they had before and a contrast to the gauntness of his face. While he had never been buff, he had carried a few extra pounds on him, which he always blamed on Renny's cooking. The scars were pink and very visible in the dark, curly hair on his arm. He was not the same man he was just a few months ago. He didn't look the same. He didn't act the same. He didn't even think the same. He had changed through no intention of his own.

He grabbed the towel that sat on the bathroom counter and patted his face dry. While he pressed the terry cloth fabric to his face, he took a deep breath trying to steel himself. Three months ago, life had been different. He had a girlfriend. His business had been growing. Hell, even his sink had been clean. It wasn't even the same sink!

Now, everything was different. Now, Rhychard was a Warrior of the Way and the first human Warrior at that.

"But you still need to eat, Warrior," Rhychard said to his reflection. While he did an elf's job protecting the world from evil, he still had a human's appetite, as well as very human bills. Being a Warrior didn't come with health benefits, a Christmas bonus, or even a paycheck.

He slipped a black T-shirt over his head and left the bathroom. Kree lifted his giant muzzle from the arms of the couch as Rhychard entered the living room portion of his apartment, sneezing as the Warrior passed through.

:You smell funny.:

"Thanks. Not sure how to take that from a three-hundred-pound dog." Rhychard lifted his shirt and took a sniff. "Okay, perhaps I need to do some laundry."

:A shower might help, as well.: Kree laid his head back down, closing his eyes.

Rhychard just stared at the coshey a moment and decided just to end the hygiene debate where it was. "I'll be back. I have a human job to do. You know, the one that brings in money so I can buy those frozen pizzas you like."

:Good, because the cupboard is quite bare. Do not forget to take the Guardian Sword with you. Vargas seems to appreciate surprising you.:

Rhychard felt the scar on his arm at the memory. Walking back to his room he grabbed the harness that held the Guardian Sword as well as two short swords made of iron. The faerie world hated iron, it seemed. It turned them to ash. He slipped the harness onto his back, and as soon as the clasp snapped, they faded from sight thanks to a spell put on them by the Seelie. He could still feel the swords' presence on his back, but it was as if they had disappeared altogether. The glamour was one of the helpful tricks Kendalais, the Sidhe Warrior Master who trained him, gave Rhychard before tossing him to the wolves, or in this case to the Unseelie. It allowed him to carry his weapons with him without being arrested or looking like some freak. The minute he needed the powerful sword, he could just reach back, grab the hilt, and draw it. The sword would slip into visibility, and then the fight would be on. He still wasn't used to carrying invisible swords with him everywhere he went, however, especially in an age where everyone used guns, but Kree was correct. Ever since the Guardian forced Rhychard into the battle between the Way and the Void, he became a target for the denizens of the Nether.

Sufficiently armed against surprise attacks, Rhychard escaped the confines of his small condo. All Kree said as Rhychard departed was for him to watch his back. "Isn't that what the sword is for?" he had quipped back. Then he reminded himself that the blade's magic hadn't done such a great job of warning him last time.

My Hand Truck & I was Rhychard's moving truck company. Most jobs he was able to do on his own, which worked out great for his wallet, but occasionally, he needed help. Today was one of those days, so he swung by and picked up Trace Wheeler, who had actually landed the job for Rhychard. It was only fair to include Trace since he found the work for them, although Rhychard could have used all the money himself. Kree hadn't been joking when he said the cupboards were bare.

Trace Wheeler was an old friend from high school who liked the idea of only working when absolutely necessary. That wasn't much as it stood because Trace had never left his parents' home, choosing to stay with his mother after his father died of liver disease. Still, his lack of ambition worked out great for Rhychard because business had dropped off drastically since the Guardian claimed ownership of his life. It was like being drafted into the Army. Your life was over, and a new one began. Furthermore, Trace never asked a lot of questions and was always available when Rhychard needed him, two things Rhychard required in a partner.